I Ain't Afraid of No Ghost
by PuffPiece
Summary: A new friend has a problem. The Winchesters have a solution. And questionable judgement. Fifth in the Reality Bites series. Warning: Amputee Dean.


**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

Author's Note: This story will make much more sense if you read the preceding stories – Reality Bites (and Then Spits You Back Out) and Relearning to Fly. Follows Who You Gonna Call and Sick Day.

The upside, Dean thinks as he's working to keep Sam from pinning him, is that he doesn't have much for Sam to pin. No legs for his brother to wrestle out from under him. No lower arms or wrists for Sam to clamp onto. His arm stumps slip through Sam's grasp rather easily, allowing him to squirm away from his brother's rather octopus-like body.

The downside to not having arms or legs, of course, is not having arms or legs. Leaving him without much of a way to pin his brother. Short of just laying his torso across him, which is what he's trying to do now.

They're at more or less of an impasse until Sam finally flips him over and sits on him, effectively squashing him like a bug.

"Happy now?" Sam asks after Dean's tapped out.

"Ecstatic," Dean says, working himself into a seated position on the floor while he rubs his chest with the remainder of his right arm.

Dean's been not-so-subtly dropping hints about a return to the Hunting Life, or something adjacent to it, since he rather effectively "negotiated" a child spirit (and dog, Dean's quick to remind him – don't forget about the dog) into the Eternal Beyond. Their latest tussle was Dean's brilliant idea to show his brother that he's not as helpless as he appears. And while Sam would have rarely described his brother as helpless, that was then. This is now. And now just happens to come without the advantage of limbs.

Sam watches as his brother uses his remaining arm stumps to scoot himself back over to his wheelchair, then climbs back into his main source of mobility. A much smoother process now than it was several months ago, but only slightly less painful to watch.

Because as much progress as Dean has made, the fact remains that his brother is permanently and significantly disabled. And Sam would really rather keep what's left of him in one piece.

()()()()()()()()

Dean barely gets the door open before Laura's hustling past him, doesn't even say "hello" as she makes a beeline for the kitchen.

Dean rolls himself slightly into the hallway, finds it empty, and closes the door behind him, locking it just to be safe. He shrugs at Sam who's hunched over his computer and follows her, gesturing for Sam to stay seated until he finds out what's going on.

He catches her in the act of pouring herself a cup of coffee, wants to warn her that it's probably cold by now, but gets distracted by the tremor in her hands.

He wheels over to where she's standing, pulls the chair out for her rather haltingly by hooking one elbow around the chair while wheeling himself backwards with the other one, and watches as she sinks into it wordlessly. Chivalry may be disabled, but it's not dead.

"What's up?" he asks, parking himself across the table at his usual space.

She takes a couple of deep breaths, makes a face after taking a slug of the cold coffee, and then sets the mug down in front her herself. She finally gives a slight nod, a sheepish look crossing her face.

"Sorry," she finally says. "I didn't know where else to go. Aunt Margie isn't home, and I can't go back there…" She trails off and Dean can see the beginnings of panic take hold as her breathing quickens and her knuckles turn white where they're clenching the edge of the table.

"Hey, hey," he says, shifting a little to try to get her attention. "You okay?"

She nods again, closes her eyes and focuses on her breathing for a few seconds. "I think I might be going crazy," she says finally, peeking an eye open to read Dean's reaction.

"Welcome to the club," Dean says with a shrug and a bland facial expression. "It's not all it's cracked up to be. Doesn't even come with dental."

She cracks a reluctant smile and her shoulders begin to relax a bit from where they've been hovering around her ears.

"Care to share?" he asks, satisfied that she no longer seems to be on the edge of whatever precipice she was hovering near.

She takes another breath, lifts the coffee mug mid-way to her mouth before thinking better of it and setting if back on the table, and plays with the handle before beginning.

"Ever get the feeling you're being watched?"

Dean's eyebrows raise fractionally, because, yeah. Every time he goes out in public people turn and stare. In restaurants he's practically the free entertainment. Not that he goes out all that much, but when he does, he knows people can't help but look. It's not every day you see a guy without hands trying to feed himself.

But somehow, he doesn't think that's what she's talking about. So instead, he nods, giving her encouragement to continue, which she does.

"It's just that recently when I've been at my office, I get the feeling I'm not alone." She gives an involuntary shudder and briefly closes her eyes. "No one's there. I keep the doors locked. But it's just a feeling." She pauses again, plays with her mug again. "And I keep losing stuff."

Dean shifts around in his chair, posture straighter with her last admission. "Anything else…" he pauses, can't believe he's heading down this familiar line of questioning, "weird?" She gives him a blank look and while he doesn't like to lead anyone, he figures he'll just nudge her along. "Cold spots? Flickering lights?"

Her eyes widen and she gives a barely visible nod. "How'd you know?" she asks in a strangled whisper.

"Hold that thought," Dean says, rolling himself away from the table. "Sam!" he yells into the living room.

Laura's eyes widen even further, practically bugging out of her head, as she tries in vain to wave off another set of ears to the sad tale of her tenuous mental health.

Sam ambles in, stretches out his back using the doorframe, pours himself a cup of coffee, and makes the same face Laura made after he takes a swallow. "Anyone want a fresh pot?" he asks, oblivious to the tension hanging in the air.

Dean shakes his head tersely, tilts his head in Laura's direction and directs Sam to have a seat with a movement of his chin.

"Can you start at the beginning again?" Dean asks her once Sam's followed his nonverbal directive.

She gives a glance between the brothers, doesn't know Sam nearly as well as his brother (has talked to him just a couple of times, in fact), but Dean seems more comfortable with his brother's addition to the room. And for some reason she trusts Dean, so ….

Once she's reiterated the information for Sam, the brothers exchange a couple of meaningful glances, Dean's expression reading along the lines of "Come on, man", while Sam's says "Seriously?". Laura's pretty sure a full conversation has just occurred but hasn't a clue as to what has been said.

"Okay," Sam says turning his attention from Dean back to her with a final heavy sigh. "So tell us a little more about your office."

Laura takes a breath, considers the kind of information he might be interested in. "It's an old converted warehouse, third floor, a couple of blocks from here. Been there just over a year now."

"Anything like this happen before?" asks Dean, the nonchalant tone of his question offset by the fact that he's leaning forward, elbows braced on the table.

Laura shakes her head quickly. "No. Not until a few weeks ago. Never before." She starts to tear up and the brothers share a quick look, neither overly joyed to have to deal with a crying woman. Before they can do anything, however, she takes a quick deep breath, putting an end to the threat of her unwanted waterworks.

"Did anything change?" Sam asks, hesitant to set her off again but needing to dig deeper.

She nods, still in control, then her voice wavers a little as she answers. "I went back to the office." Her face cracks a little and she takes another breath before continuing. "After Brian died."

Sam and Dean exchange an "Oh Shit" look, Dean having filled his brother in on what Laura disclosed about her brother's suicide. Another nonverbal conversation takes place between the two men, Sam convincing Dean via narrowed eyes, pointed eyebrows, and chin nods that Dean should be the one to continue questioning Laura.

Dean pulls a couple of "Why me?" faces before finally rolling his eyes at his brother. He dips his head a little to try to get her attention and when that doesn't work, reaches out and lays his right arm on hers. "Laura," he says holding her eye contact carefully when she glances up at him, "we need you to tell us exactly how Brian died."

Her face finally crumples and the tears don't leak so much as course down her cheeks while the brothers look on helplessly, Dean eventually pushing a napkin her way which she uses to blow her nose and blot her cheeks dry.

She spends the next ten minutes filling them in on her brother. Only a year apart in age, they were "thick as thieves" growing up, in each other's pockets for better or worse. Went into business with each other, were working to grow the company together. In the office space Laura is currently questioning.

How he lost his leg in a motorcycle accident, did okay until his girlfriend dumped him, then his self-esteem hit the toilet and he sank into a depression that Laura couldn't get him out of. How she tried desperately to try to get him help; tried to get him to see a counselor, tried to get him to talk to his doctor. Tried to get him to talk to her.

Then one day a couple of months ago, she got to the office to find him lying on the floor, empty pill bottles lying next to him. He was already cold by the time she got there, no chance of saving him.

She'd taken a little time off, then worked from home for a few weeks and only recently tried to go back to the office. At first she thought it was just her imagination (thinks it still might be), thought it was her guilt that was making her feel these things. Thought it was flashbacks or something.

But flashbacks and guilt don't make the lights flicker. Don't make the air colder in some spots than others. Don't take things from her bag and hide them in the cabinets. Like Brian used to do.

"So," she says, pausing from her story and looking earnestly between the brothers. "You think I'm crazy?"

Dean gives a smirk and raises his eyebrows. "For this or just in general?" Sam rolls his eyes and Dean shrugs. "What? They're two very different questions."

He gets a hesitant smile from Laura who purses her lips and gives a bit more thoughtful stare at the Winchesters.

"So you don't you think I'm crazy?" she asks, eyebrows now shaped into more of a wary expression.

The Winchesters have another mini nonverbal conversation as she glances between the two of them.

"Here's the thing," Dean begins as he unconsciously begins rubbing his arm stumps on his legs. This girl doesn't know them from Jack Squat but she seems to have a problem right up their alley. And that means bursting her bubble of reality. "Ghosts are real." He glances at her, sees her expression hasn't changed, and decides to power through. "And we think your brother may be hanging around your office." He sits back, crosses his arms to keep them from further betraying his nervousness, and waits on her response.

"So you guys are the crazy ones," she says as if that explains everything. Leave it to her to find the one place of refuge that's actually more screwed up than she is.

"It's been said," Dean says matter-of-factly.

"Listen," Sam jumps in, big doe eyes trying to gain back her trust. "This is what we do." He pauses, glances at Dean, and closes his eyes briefly as a pained expression flits across his face. "What we used to do. Ghosts, monsters. All of it."

A lightbulb goes on in Laura's brain and she turns to Dean, surveying his damaged body. "So the wild animal attack…"

"Black Dog," he says. "Big nasty beast of the supernatural variety."

Sam ducks his head, shifts uncomfortably and Laura can't shake the feeling that there's more to the story. She leans back in her chair, questions tumbling over each other as they race to take precedence in her mind.

"We need to go see your office," Dean says before she can put voice to any of her thoughts.

Sam gives his brother a hard look, then shakes his head and stalks out of the kitchen.

Laura and Dean sit in silence for a few moments before Laura presses further. "So you really think it's Brian?" She worries at her bottom lip, eyes round and seeking as she stares at Dean.

He nods. "It makes sense. Any idea why he'd be sticking around though?"

She quickly shakes her head, looks off into the distance for a few brief seconds, then shakes her head again.

"Alright," Dean says, rolling himself away from the table. "Let's shake a leg then. Preferably yours, 'cause I don't have one."

()()()()()()()()

 _Shit._

Dean sits at the base of the stairs, the first of two flights that will get them to Laura's third floor office. He bites his lip, considering his options. The old rickety elevator in the building is little more than a death trap – an open hole with a fast lane to certain death; apparently ADA compliance isn't a big issue with the building's tenants.

He could climb the stairs by himself, use his arms to drag himself up step by step. But they'd be here till next Tuesday. As much as he hates to admit it, Sam's probably his best option. Dean looks at his brother, sees the barely suppressed guilt cross Sam's face when he reaches the same conclusion.

They've tried a variety of caries since Dean's injury. The Fireman's carry sometimes works, but Dean really hates seeing so much of Sam's ass (and vice versa) and Sam really doesn't have that much leverage. Dean's leg stumps don't give him much to hang onto and since he's rather top-heavy, the usual fulcrum of the waist is way off-balance.

They've also tried the good old piggyback ride. Besides the fact that Dean makes continuous "Giddyap" and "Get along little doggie" comments (to which Sam again questions his brother's unhealthy fascination of the Old West), Dean can't really wrap his arms around Sam's neck. If he does, it's more like a choke-out maneuver by virtue of how he has to position his arm stumps, and an unconscious Sam is a rather ineffective vehicle. Add to that the fact that he can't wrap his legs around his brother's waist and Sam really doesn't have anything to hold onto to keep Dean in place. The Piggyback has been relegated to more of a wrestling maneuver.

Which leaves the usual old-fashioned bridal carry, still awkward since Dean doesn't have knees Sam can hook an arm under. But it does give Sam a firm grip on his brother without the danger of his stumps slipping out of his grasp, while allowing somewhat decent mechanics so he doesn't throw his own back out. Unfortunately, it comes with a face-full of snarky Dean.

Sam pulls their weapons duffel bag cross-wise over his chest before picking up his brother, still taken aback by how much easier it is to carry Dean without the weight of is arms and legs compared to when he's had to haul his unconscious ass back from past hunts.

"Just because you're carrying me across the threshold doesn't mean I'm spooning with you later tonight," Dean says once he's settled in Sam's arms.

"Does he think he's funny?" Laura asks Sam in a stage whisper.

Sam glances down at his brother, rolls his eyes, and says, "Yeah." He pauses a few beats before a smile works at the corners of his mouth. "He's wrong."

Dean scowls back at his brother while Laura busies herself with hauling Dean's wheelchair up the stairs, mumbling apologies for not thinking through the finer points of how she gets to her office on a daily basis. Because why would she. Why would anyone?

Sam reaches the landing to Laura's floor, ears flaming with two floors of verbal Dean-snark, and Sam none too gently deposits his brother back into his wheelchair, Bitch Face firmly in place.

Dean gives his brother another scowl before turning his attention to Laura who's merely standing there, unsure whether to laugh or run.

"Lead on," Dean says to her, gesturing with his left arm to precede them on to the proper office.

She precedes them down a wide hallway, past several doors with signs noting businesses like "Firman Brothers Architects", "ReillyTech", and "RM Media Solutions," before stopping at a door marked "BL Electrical Engineering". They haven't passed another person since they've entered the building; apparently the working professionals that have offices here take their weekends very seriously.

Laura unlocks the door, deactivates the alarm, and walks through the office, flicking the lights on as she goes. The space is open and well-lit, drawings and semi-assembled electrical equipment strewn about the place. The boys have done some equipment MacGyvering in their day, but this is a whole other level – its equal money whether Dean or Sam will have an orgasm first.

There's not much of a tour to take, but she points out her disaster zone of a desk, Brian's now empty desk, and the folding table where the part-time receptionist sits.

"We're just starting out," she explains. She clears her throat and corrects herself with a barely visible head nod. "Were. We'd both considered joining the big firms, Brian did for a little while I was finishing school, then we decided to join our Wonder Twin Powers and open up shop for ourselves."

"You guys twins?" Dean asks, wheeling himself around Brian's desk area.

She gives a soft laugh before clarifying. "No, but we might as well have been. He was older by just under a year. 'Two peas in a pod' mom would call us. He was the quiet one, me – not so much."

"Never would have guessed," says Dean dryly.

She laughs again. "Yeah, people always used to say it was like we were two parts of a 'normal' person. I have the ideas, the creativity, the looks," she says, giving them a wink, "while he was the grounded one, the one with the drive, who could make things happen." She bites her bottom lip and sighs. "I just don't know where things went wrong."

"Hey," Dean says, wheeling himself over to her. "Depression does some nasty shit."

She gives a weak smile. "I know. I tried to talk to him about it. Tried to get him to talk to mom, to Aunt Margie, to his doctor. To anyone. I could see him slipping, but he just wouldn't let me in."

The brothers share a look, not quite sure how to offer further comfort, when the lights start to flicker.

"Brian?" Sam calls out, head swiveling to see if he can pick up the image of a fourth person in the room with them.

The air is still, the only sound that of the ticking clock from the wall next to the main door, counting down the seconds to a possible ghostly encounter.

When nothing happens after several seconds of held breaths and strained ears, the boys decide to split up (against Sam's better judgement which he voices clearly and frequently), each taking separate corners of the office while Laura makes a failed attempt to bring some organization to her work space.

Dean's slowly wheeling himself around, exploring his designated section of the room, when he passes through an unnaturally cold puff of air. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and his heart rate kicks up a couple of notches when he breathes out slowly and is able to see the cloud of condensation in front of his face. He turns himself in a slow circle, not seeing anything but body tensed on high alert.

Dean's chair jerks forward, suddenly picking up speed. He tries to slow its unnatural movement with his arm stumps but has to pull them quickly away from the wheels when the friction threatens a rug burn to his sensitive skin. He hazards a glance behind him and isn't all that surprised to see the form of a young man blinking behind him, muttering under his breath while continuing to drive Dean's chair forwards. Dean tries to listen in on the spirit's one-sided conversation, a wary eye watching as the elevator shaft looms closer and closer. The heavy gated door begins to open by an invisible hand and Dean tries again in vain to stop his chair, but his arm stumps are no match for ghostly Wheaties. He makes a few mental calculations, envisions the bottom of the empty elevator shaft in his future, and decides he really doesn't feel like flying today. He tilts himself to the side, overturning his chair and effectively halting the spirit's attempt on his life, taking just the briefest of seconds to catch his breath before using his arms to pull himself as fast as he can on his stomach, his brother's name echoing through the empty office space as he works his body towards the duffel bag.

The boys had debated the contents of said duffel prior to their departure from their apartment, finally settling on a can of Morton's salt, an iron wrench, an iron pipe, and a silver knife. Sam argued that the silver knife wouldn't do anything against a ghost, but finally gave in after Dean admitted it made him feel better just to know it was there.

But seriously? What was he thinking?

He's practiced shaking the salt container – finally figured out how to avoid giving himself a salt facial and get the granules headed in the right direction, although he can only manage at very close range and for just a few shakes before he loses his grip. The iron tends to work a bit better – he can at least keep a better grip on the wrench than the smooth round pipe, although, again, his swinging radius is significantly limited, meaning his defensive maneuvers will all be up-close and personal. And as his brain thinks through the practicalities of how to actually get to the weapons, he realizes that he can't even open the bag – the zipper might as well be Fort Knox. Unless the spirit sits down, has a cup of tea, and waits for him to tease the thing open with his mouth.

He thinks again how uber-screwed he may be as he feels himself begin to slide back towards the elevator, door now wide open, a cool breeze wafting up from below. And he has the briefest flashback to the Black Dog, dragging him through the forest, using his legs as a chew toy. His heart hammers in his chest as he fights to stay in the present, knows if he loses his focus he'll be losing a lot more than his legs and arms this time.

He tries his hardest to halt his progress, but unlike in the forest when he could use his arms to grab onto passing tree roots before using them to try to wrestle his legs from the grip of the beast's jaws, the smooth skin of his stumps just glide over the hardwood floor, waving helplessly as he comes closer and closer to certain death.

"Brian! No!" Laura' voice rings out and Dean feels his motion cease, raises his head to see Laura and Sam hustling towards him.

"You okay man?" Sam asks, scanning his brother for blood and visible organs that don't belong on the outside of the human body.

Dean just lays on his stomach for a few seconds, panting in an effort to keep himself from passing out cold, then gives a quick nod and a gulp before flipping himself over onto his back. He crosses his elbows over his eyes, works through a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm himself even more, then struggles upright into a seated position.

"Want your chair?" Sam asks, watching carefully as Dean gets control of himself, Sam's own body tensed and coiled, ready to spring to his brother's aid.

Dean gives the chair careful consideration. Recalls the brief flashes of Black Dog that landed him in this current situation. Recalls how powerless he was to stop Brian's motion. He inspects his arm stumps carefully, prods one with the other, relieved when he sees little more than the hint of redness at the ends, glad he pulled them off his wheels when he did. Finally deciding that none of this was the chair's fault, he gives a nod and lets Sam help him back into his seat.

"Outside," he says, rolling himself over to the main door with Sam and Laura in hot pursuit, Sam snagging the duffel as he rushes past.

Out in the hallway, Sam suggests that they reconvene back at the apartment but Dean quickly vetoes the idea, suspecting that if they leave, Sam won't let him come back. And while he's considering how maybe that's not such a bad thing, he glances over at Laura's face and remembers why they're here in the first place.

Laura's face has drained of almost all of its color, her skin tone now just barely contrasting with the whites of her eyes, which, Dean notes, haven't blinked in an uncomfortably long time.

"Laura," he barks at her, hopeful his tone will snap her back from wherever her brain has taken her.

"What?" she asks, shaking herself off and rejoining the here and now.

"So that was Brian?"

She nods, then swallows; Sam and Dean can see her visibly trying to keep the tears at bay, still confused and dismayed by what she's just seen her dead brother's _spirit_ do to Dean.

"Okay, then" Sam says, nodding his head slowly a couple of times, trying to put the pieces together. "So what does he want?"

They all stare at each other for a few seconds before Dean finally offers, "I think I pissed him off."

Sam lets out a snort, his brother's statement breaking some of the tension in the air. "Shocker," he says, one raised eyebrow directed at his brother. Over their years together, Dean's mouth has been more likely to instigate bar fights and ass-kickings than to solve world peace. It's only natural that he would've figured out some way to piss off a spirit today as well. "What'd you say to him?"

Dean rolls his eyes at his brother's assumption, frowns a little as he thinks back to those interminable seconds when Brian was pushing his wheelchair towards the elevator shaft. "No. I mean this," he says, waving his arm stumps to encompass the rest of his body. "He kept saying 'Injured. Don't worry. Won't let you do it.'" Dean pauses, rubs his arm stumps together again a couple of times, and takes a deep breath. "I think me being an amputee set him off."

Laura lets out a strangled sound and Sam just says "Huh,"; he casts a glance at his brother, knowing how much he hates using the "A" word to describe himself; it's right up there with "stump" and "residual limb" – necessary and accurate evils, but evils nonetheless. The trio stand (and sit) in silence for a few more moments digesting the potential of Dean's theory, the only movement Dean's continued attempts to soothe his stumps.

"But why?" Laura finally asks, putting to voice the question that the Winchester brothers had been debating in their own heads.

"Okay," says Dean, taking a deep breath and trying to approach the case from a different angle. "First question is why is Brian hanging around. Next is why did he try to get me to take a flying leap."

"Or," Sam says, furrowing his brow in thought. "If we answer the second, maybe that'll help us with the first."

Dean rolls his eyes at his brother's contradictory nature but Sam continues.

"No, listen. Maybe if we think about why he wanted to 'help you'," Sam says, using his fingers to make air quotes, "we can figure out what he's still doing here."

Dean tilts his head, frowns, and gives a slight nod of his head, considers that maybe Sam's actually trying to help instead of just being an ass. "Fair enough. So he said he 'wouldn't let me do it'. Do what? What did he mean?"

Laura swallows audibly before entering the discussion. "Kill yourself." Her eyes are wide but the brothers are glad to see that her skin tone has resumed its more natural coloration.

"Okay," says Dean, shifting himself around in his wheelchair a bit. Not that he's uncomfortable with the topic. Just that he doesn't like all the focus on thoughts that may or may not have floated through his mind since his injury. He sees Sam giving him his Intense Sam Gaze and stops his shifting, settling back and crossing his arms to keep them from giving him away again. "So then if he wants to prevent me from killing myself, why try to kill me? I mean, isn't that kind of counterproductive?"

Sam reads his brother's mood properly, tries to break the tension a bit. "And fast. Usually people have to hang around you for at least a couple of hours before they want to kill you."

Dean gives a half-hearted eye roll, secretly glad that his brother knows how to diffuse these types of situations, while Laura's expression is somewhere between amused and scandalized.

"So let's say he sees you're a little less than able-bodied," Sam says, earning a half-laugh, half-snort from his brother which he ignores and continues. "He decides that since he did what he did because of his injury, he figures you'd be having the same thoughts. Doesn't want you to have to go through the same thing. Which is what?"

"Guilt," Laura says softly. The boys turn their attention to her, consider her answer from various angles.

"Could be that he feels guilty for taking his own life. For leaving Laura behind," Dean offers, attention on Sam but gauging Laura's reaction out of the corner of his eye.

"Or," Laura jumps in, "he could feel guilty about me feeling guilty."

Dean gives a low whistle. "I know spirits don't have the best ability to reason, but even that one seems kind of messed up."

Sam just shrugs, knows they've dealt with crazier. "So what do we do?"

"Salt and burn?" Dean suggests, the reply an automatic.

"What?" Laura cries, brows furrowed at their suggestion. "No! That's my brother!"

"Was your brother," Dean corrects.

"No way," she reiterates, arms crossed, head shaking back and forth.

"Laura," Sam begins in his most comforting Sam Voice, "This is what we do. And if your brother's stuck here, we need to get him to Move On. If we salt and burn his bones, he doesn't have anything holding him here and he can let go."

Laura tilts her head and quirks her pierced brow, then gives a shrug. "Well then, it's a moot point anyway." She glances between the two brothers and continues, "He was cremated. Didn't want to spend eternity confined to a box." She gives a half-hearted snort and a sad smile. "The Jerk was a claustrophobic environmentalist. We scattered his ashes at the Botanical Gardens.

"Shit," says Sam softly, running his fingers through his hair as he tries to figure out their next move. "Now what?"

He and Dean share a few brief glances and Sam starts to shake his head vehemently at the light that's started to spark in his brother's eyes.

"Don't. Even. Say it." Sam says, holding up his finger in a useless attempt to keep Dean's brain from getting them into further trouble.

Dean just gives his knowing Winchester smirk, briefly wags his eyebrows, and says what Sam's been dreading.

"We could ne-Ghost-iate."

"What?" Laura's flat tone and facial expression imply that she's reconsidering her previous stance on the Winchester brothers' mental health.

"Like it?" Dean asks proudly. "I came up with it."

Sam snorts and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, like I'd ever try to take credit for that one."

She darts her eyes between the brothers, racks her brain, and comes up with no better options to solve her current predicament. Other than just moving out of the office altogether. But she kind of likes it here; her dead brother's homicidal/suicidal spirit notwithstanding, of course.

Dean ignores his brother, refocuses on the twisted logic of the spirit world. "Okay, so if he's trying to save me from the same fate, I just need to convince him that I'm not suicidal."

"Dude, you know spirits aren't the most rational entities out there," Sam says, resigned to his brother's one track mind.

"Yeah, but what if he isn't too far gone? I mean, he killed himself a couple of months ago right? He hasn't had time to go cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs yet."

"What?" Laura reiterates, face stuck in the same dumbstruck expression.

"Long story short," Dean says, rolling himself forward and backward slightly in his attempt at pacing. "Person dies. Becomes a spirit. Spirit loses grip on reality. Spirit goes crazy."

Laura's eyes bug out a bit, mouth slightly agape and Sam huffs at his brother's insensitivity.

"What?" says Dean with a shrug and a defensive expression on his face. "I said long story short."

"Yeah, well, you should have said nothing," Sam hiss-whispers.

"Okay," says Laura, straightening her spine and giving a resolute nod. "So to prevent Brian from going cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs," she says, sparing a glance at Dean, "we have to get him out of here, right?"

"Atta girl!" Dean says, giving her an approving glance while barely refraining himself from giving Sam an invisible middle finger.

"Alright, fine," Sam huffs out, considering himself outnumbered. "I think we may need to step up our game on this one. We're not dealing with some dead kid under the bed here. This guy tried to send you down an elevator shaft."

"Don't forget the dog," Dean interjects, earning a Bitch Face from his brother.

"At the risk of sounding like a broken record here," Laura says, pierced brow practically at her hairline, "What?"

"Have you met Kelli?" Dean says, a smile breaking out over his face at the thought of his little friend. "Cute little 5-year old? Pig tails?"

"Dean! Focus!" says Sam, grasping his hair in exasperation at his brother's flea-sized attention span.

"Fill you in later," Dean stage whispers to her out of the side of his mouth, giving an exaggerated nod in his brother's direction and widening his eyes. "Gotta focus."

Laura fights a smile back, now back at ease in the midst of this potentially deadly situation.

"Okay," Sam says, clearly trying to steer this rapidly derailing Crazy Train back on track. "We need protection." He bends down and roots through the duffle bag, pulls out the salt container, wrench, and pipe, setting them on the floor in the middle of their huddle.

"So, we're baking and fixing a leaky faucet?" Laura asks, nose scrunched as she stares at the objects meant to protect them from the spirit world.

"Ghost repellant," Dean says, leaning forward on his elbows, contemplating their meager offerings.

"Gonna need more," adds Sam, mentally kicking himself for not adding the rock salt guns to the bag; he thought they were just going to do a little recon today. Not a full-on job.

"More what?" asks Laura.

The boys share a quick look and answer in sync. "Salt."

"For?"

"We lay down salt lines, usually in a circle, stand inside, and the spirit can't cross it," answers Sam.

She nods and starts down the stairs. "I got it," she calls back up to them. "Grocery store down the block. How much?"

"As much as you can carry!" Dean calls down after her.

Sam contemplates going after her, then decides she's got a pretty good head on her shoulders and he's got bigger issues to deal with. Like his brother.

"Alright," Sam says, trying to think through how this is going to play out. "We stay inside the salt circle, I have the wrench in case anything breaks through…"

He's cut off by Dean's interjection. "Why do you get to hold the wrench?"

Sam glares at Dean's stumps pointedly, blandly quirks an eyebrow at his brother and says, "Really Dean?"

Dean scowls back and Sam shrugs. "Fine then," he says, offering the wrench out to Dean, "go ahead and defend yourself."

Dean takes the wrench between his stumps, has to place it on his lap to try to get a better grip, and then picks it back up again, holding it in front of himself. Sam neatly plucks the tool out of his brother's fingerless grip, leaving Dean sputtering, the momentary look of triumph quickly wiped away.

"Aaaaannnd you're dead," Sam draws, rolling his eyes.

Dean's scowl returns, loathe to admit that his brother's got a point. For now. Doesn't mean he won't figure something out. Just maybe not right at this moment.

Laura notices the tension as she takes the last few steps up to where the brothers remain, glaring at each other, Dean muttering something about Sam stealing his thunder while Laura catches Sam mumbling something about a "delusional dumbass".

She sets her four bags on the ground between them, clearing her throat to get their attention. "I think I bought them out. Got all the canisters and boxes they had. Had them double bag it," she says with a sad chuckle, pointing to the plastic-encased paper bags. At the brother's blank looks she adds, "Brian the environmentalist. He may very well kill me when he's done with you," she directs at Dean.

The boys blink, her words serving to remind them of the task at hand.

"Right," says Dean. "Okay. So Sam and I are going back inside to deal with Brian, send him on his merry way, and we all go home and get a good night's sleep."

"What about me?" asks Laura.

"You stay out here and wait with your finger on speed dial to 911 when this goes to hell," Sam says, only half-joking.

"I don't think so," she says, arms crossed in defiance. "If you'll recall, I'm the one that Brian responded to. I'm the one who stopped you from getting the shaft." She quirks her brow, proud of herself for her little joke in the midst of such a high-tension atmosphere.

Dean bites his lip, can't quite keep his own smile from escaping onto his lips as he admires her chutzpah as well as her sense of humor.

"I hate to say it," he says, raising his eyebrows at Sam in disbelief, "but I think she's right."

Sam's Bitch Face emerges, equally directed towards the two idiots he's now in charge of protecting. He glances back and forth between the two of them, sees the resolution on both of their faces and finally throws his hands in the air, huffing out a "Fine!". He busies himself with gathering their supplies, grabbing the iron weapons and a couple of bags containing the salt before stalking over to Laura's office door.

"Well, come on. Let's get to work," he calls over his shoulder, not waiting for Dean and Laura before he heads back into the office.

"Look," says Dean, wheeling himself to face Laura head-on. "I know it's your brother and everything, but just know that this shit can get kind of nasty sometimes," he says, rolling his chair slightly back and forth.

She dips her head, biting her lower lip while she scuffs the ground with her shoe. "I just need this to be over. I need him to be free. And if he's still here because of me….," she trails off, taking a few deep breaths before straightening herself and nodding to the office. "I need to do this. Let's go."

Dean follows and wheels over to the partially-formed salt circle Sam's pouring out onto the hardwood floor.

"Get in," Sam says tersely.

Dean moves forwards a bit, stopping just behind the edge of the salt line and Sam positions Laura behind Dean while he stands on the left and closes the circle.

"Dude," Dean says, surveying his brother's handiwork. "Why's it so small? We got like, a whole other bag of salt we could've used."

Sam glances at his two circle-mates, realizing quickly how he's miscalculated the size of the circle he'd need with Dean's chair. They're all jammed together and if he has to turn suddenly to wield the iron weapons, he's just as likely to hit Laura or Dean as he is to hit Brian.

"But…, I thought…, We could…," he stammers while Dean just rolls his eyes.

"It doesn't matter Sammy," Dean says, the childhood nickname effectively bringing his brother's sputters to a halt.

"It's Sam," Sam says, glaring down at his brother.

"And that," Dean says gesturing to the apparition blinking in and out of focus a few feet in front of the them, "is Brian."

The three of them focus their attention on Brian as he watches back, his mouth moving in silent conversation.

"Hey Brian," Laura says softly, the note of sadness evident in her voice. "It's me. Hi." She gives a little wave, a sad smile crossing her face. "We've come to help you."

Brian's image flickers a few times, then reappears a few feet closer to their protective circle, his repetition of "Injured, won't let you do it," now audible to their ears.

Dean glances back at Sam and gives a small nod which Sam reluctantly returns.

"Hey Brian," Dean says, drawing the spirit's attention to him. "So I know you want to help me and all," he says with a strained laugh, "but I'm doing okay. You really don't have to trouble yourself." He rubs his arm stumps on his thighs and Brian's gaze locks onto his gesture, the spirit now closer with the next flicker.

"But," says Brian, eyes wide with disbelief, "how can you be okay? You are so much worse than I am." Brian's spirit manages to look both sad and confused, eyes still locked on Dean's stumps until Dean tucks his arms under his armpits to hide what he can.

"Yeah, sometimes life just sucks. But you keep going. And then it doesn't always suck anymore." He glances over at Sam who's hovering over his shoulder, hand clenched around the wrench lest Brian try anything. "And besides," Dean continues, "I've got him." He tilts his head in Sam's direction, catching his eye as he looks down at Dean in surprise.

Brian's head drops and he lets out a rather heart wrenching moan. "I'm so sorry Laura," he says, gaze finally coming to rest on his sister. "I'm so sorry I did this to you. I just didn't know what else to do."

Laura does her best to keep her emotions in check but a muffled sob slips through against her best efforts.

"I love you, you Big Dope," she says, swatting away a tear as it drops onto her cheek, "but why are you still here?"

The silence in the air is almost palpable as they wait for Brian's response. He seems genuinely confused for a few moments, brow furrowed in an expression Laura recognizes all too well, as if he's trying to figure it out for himself.

"Is it me?" she finally asks, knowing her brother well enough to be able to guess at his inner workings, even after death. "Am I holding you here?"

He looks at her more intensely, face crumbling as he realizes the truth of her statement. "I'm sorry," he repeats again.

"It's okay," she says softly, gripping the handles of Dean's wheelchair in an effort to keep herself grounded. "I'm okay. You can let go."

When Brian's spirit stays put, the brothers exchange a look, nonverbally running through their next options.

Laura, however, huffs out a sigh and rolls her eyes. "Fine you Big Dope," she says, again calling her brother by the term of endearment she bequeathed to him as a child. "Have it your way. Stay here, see if I care. But then I'll feel guilty for being the one to keep you here. And then you'll feel even more guilty about me feeling guilty…. And then I'll have to tell mom and then she'll feel guilty. Oh, and Aunt Margie, you know how she gets…".

The boys actually begin to feel sorry for Brian as his face shifts from sorrow to outright horror as he contemplates the sheer amount of female guilt that will be linked back to him if he sticks around.

His lips quirk in a reluctant half-smile, and he briefly glances at Sam and Dean before turning his attention back to his sister.

"Fine then, Sasspants," using the term of endearment he'd long ago coined for his little sister. "I'll go. But you have to promise me something." He crooks an eyebrow in a gesture similar to Laura's, waiting for her agreement before continuing.

She nods her assent and he says, "You have to promise me that you'll take of yourself. That you'll let others take care of you too. Like I didn't."

She bites her cheek and heaves a sigh, nodding a few more times while blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay.

"Thank you," he says, a reluctant smile playing on his lips as his figure fades away, leaving only three rather stunned humans standing stock-still in the middle of an uncomfortably small circle of salt.

"Huh," says Dean after a few moments of silence, his expression a cross between thoughtful and impressed. "Guilting a spirit into Moving On. That's a new one." He and Sam share a look, tucking that play away in their playbook for the future before turning their attention to Laura.

"So he's gone?" she asks, not even bothering to swipe at the tears as they drip off of her chin.

Dean wheels himself out of the circle and turns himself to face her. "Guess we'll just have to see." He and Sam are both trying to figure out how to Know without a body to burn, a decapitated head, or a ghostly flame-out to signal the end to their job. "Guess they don't all go Glowy like at Kelli's," he adds, thinking about the only other frame of reference they have for this kind of situation.

He and Sam poke around the office for a few more minutes, finding no cold spots or flickering lights, and the general air of boringness gives them hope that Brian is well and truly Moved On.

"Alright then Sasspants, let's get out of here." Dean tosses a smirk over his shoulder at Laura as he heads out the door, Sam chuckling along behind him.

"Shut up." If Brian weren't already dead, she would so kill him right now.

()()()()()()()()

"Hey, can I come in?" Sam nudges the door open, peeks around the corner when Dean just gives him a "uh huh."

Dean's sitting on his bed using a mirror to inspect the ends and backs of his leg stumps, barely glancing up when Sam enters his bedroom.

"You okay?" Sam asks as he takes a seat in the chair next to Dean's bed, scanning his memory over Dean's tumble and slide across the floor.

"Yeah, I think so," he says, a disgusted look on his face. "Just a little sore." He gives his arm stumps another inspection and asks Sam to open the jar of cream Nadine recommended he use to keep the ends of his residual limbs healthy. He can usually manage to open it on his own, but he's pretty sure the ridges on the lid aren't going to feel very good on the sensitive skin of his arms right now.

Sam makes short work of his chore, resisting the urge to offer to help as Dean gently massages the cream into his stumps.

"You okay?" Dean asks, long past the point of caring if Sam sees what he has to do to keep his body in working order these days.

"Yeah," he says with a sigh, leaning forward on his arms. He lets his hair fall across his face as he hangs his head, then shakes it away when he looks up at his brother. "Just, what you said back there."

"What?" he says, wincing slightly as he rubs his residual limbs a little too aggressively.

"About life sucking."

"Yeah, well sometimes it does."

"Yeah. But I mean," Sam says, ruffling his hair as he tries to figure out how to talk with his brother, "is it getting any easier?"

"Shit man," says Dean, shoulders dropping as he understands his brother's train of thought, "we gotta talk about this now?"

"Well, no. But yeah." Sam scrubs the back of his neck, stands up abruptly, and begins pacing a tight perimeter around Dean's bed. "I mean, you're adapting to the day to day stuff. Figuring out what you can do, what you can't do," he pauses and steals a glance at Dean who's propped up against the head of the bed, arms now crossed as he waits for Sam to get to his point. "But I need to know you're okay up here too," Sam says, pointing to his temple.

Dean scoffs, lets out a snort before he says, "I think we both know I was never okay up there."

Sam lets out a weary sigh, a look of pleading on his face. "I'm serious. Am I going to end up like Laura?"

"What, a girl?" Dean says, trying to deflect Sam's heartfelt inquiry.

Sam levels a glance at his brother and holds his gaze. "Alone. Without my brother. Because it was all too much."

Dean scooches his way over next to the empty chair, gestures for Sam to have a seat again which he does quickly, spurred on by the hope of a show of emotions from his big brother.

"Yes, my life sucks. But let's face it, our lives sucked before this happened too. Demons, Hell, Angels, what's not to love, right?" he asks with a weak smile. "But we've always had each other's backs. Well, except the time you were banging a demon behind my back, but whatever," he says, eliciting a combination cringe/Bitch Face from Sam that's new to him. "And yeah, some days I do just want to throw in the towel, just want it all to be over. But not like that." He leans over and rests his right arm on Sam's shoulder, looks his brother in the eye and says, "Promise."

Sam gives him a watery smile, releasing his breath slowly, and gives a quick nod.

"We good?" Dean asks, having to clear his voice to disguise the hint of emotion that's lingering at the edge.

"Always."

Author's Note: Wow – sorry! Didn't mean for that to get so heavy! Hope I did the situation justice. And it just so happens that September is Suicide Awareness Month.


End file.
